


The Wilušiad

by assuwatar



Category: Ancient History RPF, French Revolution RPF, The Iliad - Homer, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Trojan War, don't take anything in this story seriously, that gets progressively worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-11-17 17:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assuwatar/pseuds/assuwatar
Summary: The Hittite king Muwatalli falls in love with Alakšandu (Paris) and accidentally starts the Trojan War. Featuring Romans, Google translate, and lots of baby seals.





	1. Land of a Thousand Gods

**Author's Note:**

> A friend challenged me to write a story that started off as extremely historically accurate, and became less and less accurate and more and more crazy as it progressed. This is the result.
> 
> A few notes before we begin: Wiluša is the Hittite name for Troy, and Alakšandu (or Alexander) was its king during Muwatalli II's reign. In this story, he is the same person as the Alexander/Paris from the Iliad. Aḫḫiyawa is the Hittite name for the Achaeans, or Greeks.
> 
> Enjoy - and have fun spotting the first historical inaccuracies ;)

_Ālatitta zitiš awita_ _Wilušati patadu tarweya._

Standing on the roof of the palace, the Great King Muwatalli lifted a hand to his eyes and looked in the direction where the messenger was pointing. A group of men was making its way along the road that snaked through the valley, up towards the city gates. Their spear tips and plated chariots gleamed in the sun. Muwatalli squinted. There were about fifty travellers in total, all walking slowly, formally, and dressed in bright colours. From this distance it was impossible to make out the weave of their clothes, but there was no mistaking where they came from. These were the envoys of Alakšandu of Wiluša. Muwatalli had been waiting for them for over two months now.

But for now they would have to wait a little longer. Muwatalli turned back towards the messenger.

‘Have the audience hall cleared, and bread and water brought for them. I will see them as soon as I have said my plea to the gods.’

The messenger nodded and scuttled down the stairs. Lowering his hand from his eyes, Muwatalli stepped towards the two wicker tables facing the sunrise. The priests had finished setting up the offerings: thirty-five loaves of bread lay on the tables, along with thirty pitchers of wine, a bowl of groats and another of honey mixed with oil, and a pot of fat-bread. The sun warming his skin, Muwatalli bowed deeply. In a strong voice, he began to speak.

‘Sungod of Heaven, Sungoddess of Arinna, my lady, queen, my lady, queen of Ḫatti, my lady, Stormgod, king of Heaven, my lord, Ḫebat queen, my lady, Stormgod of Ḫatti, king of Heaven, lord of Ḫatti, my lord, Stormgod of Zippalanda, my lord, beloved son of the Stormgod, lord of the land of Ḫatti, Šeri and Ḫurri, all the gods and the goddesses, all the mountains and the rivers of the land of Ḫatti, my lords.’

This part, at least, he knew from memory; for the rest, he would need the text. He stood up and held out his hand to the Chief Priest, standing to his right. The tablet the priest gave him was heavy, the wedges small as sparrow prints. Muwatalli swallowed a sigh. Land of a thousand gods, they called Ḫatti. Sometimes he wished it was closer to the land of a hundred gods. Maybe even the land of a dozen. Or who knows, just five.

‘Sungod of Heaven,’ he read out, ‘Sungoddess of Arinna, Stormgod of Arinna, Mezzulla, Ḫulla, Zintuḫiya, gods, goddesses, mountains and rivers of Arinna, Stormgod of Salvation, Stormgod of Life, Stormgod of Lightning, Ḫebat of Šamuḫa, gods, goddesses, mountains and rivers of Šamuḫa…’

And on and on. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Muwatalli’s throat began to feel dry. He fell silent for a moment and moistened his lips. The springtime heat was making sweat pearl on his forehead. He wiped it away before continuing.

‘Stormgod of Liḫšina, Tašimi, gods, goddesses, mountains and rivers of Liḫšina, Telepinu of Durmitta, gods, goddesses, mountains and rivers of Durmitta…’

If anything, this served as a good revision of the geography of his land.

‘Stormgod of Tupazziya, gods, goddesses, mountains and rivers of Tupazziya, Karuna of Kariuna, Stormgod of the Growth, Stormgod and Ḫebat of Apzišna, gods and goddesses of Apzišna, protective god of Kalašmitta.’

He’d reached the last line. Finally. Then, turning the tablet over, he took another deep breath.

‘Sungod of Heaven, my lord, shepherd of humanity, you, Sungod of Heaven, rise from the sea…’

By the time the invocations were over, the sun burned above his head and his voice was hoarse from speaking. He put the tablet back in the Great Priest’s hands and reached for the piled-up bread. Breaking three loaves in half, he dipped them into the oil and honey, then placed them on the table for the Sungoddess of Arinna. Next he poured the fat-bread and groats over them. Drops splattered the pointed ends of his shoes as he libated the first pitcher of wine.

One offering down, eleven more to go.

At last, his fingers sticky with oil and honey, he stepped back and raised his arms to the sky. The moment had come to make his plea. The things which had been in his heart for years, which he had been working towards ever since he became king, were now to be heard by the assembly of the gods themselves. And, hopefully, they would be granted.

‘Gods, my lords, I bring my case to you. The land of Egypt has transgressed your word, my lords, and attacked the land of Ḫatti. From the lands that used to belong to Ḫatti, Kadeš and Amurru, they have driven away your priests, your musicians, your bread-makers and libation-pourers. They have destroyed your images and plundered your ritual objects. Let this not go unpunished!’

The rise in tone made his voice crack. He rubbed his throat before continuing.

‘Let me do battle now with the Egyptians, and let the gods of Ḫatti, my lords, run before my army and avenge the lands of Kadeš and Amurru. Gods, my lords, let Egypt be destroyed!’

This would have to do for today. He broke the last breads and libated the last wine, then gestured towards the priests to carry it all to the fireplaces. The offerings would be burned, like Muwatalli’s men would burn the Egyptian settlements, if the gods listened – which they ought to, after such an elaborate ritual. The king ducked down into the staircase. Soon Kadeš and Amurru would be returned to his fold. Soon the gods of his father and grandfather would be honoured throughout Syria again.

But for that, he had to consolidate his power in the west first. Walking into the antechamber of the audience hall, he stopped for a moment to wash his hands and face, drink a rhyton of wine, straighten his tunic and braid his hair again. Laughter, and voices speaking in Luwian, came from across the door. Muwatalli would need to show himself like the Great King he was to discuss this alliance. It was not a parity treaty he was going to sign; it was the submission of a new vassal. Ḫatti had freed Wiluša from the renegade Piyamaradu, and now Alakšandu of Wiluša, in Ḫatti’s debt, would be required to pledge allegiance and supply troops in return. Troops which would be used in the battle against Egypt.

Muwatalli pushed the doors open.

As soon as the men caught sight of him, they fell silent and knelt. The man in their centre was the first to glance up. He was about Muwatalli’s age, with curls the colour of bronze and golden necklace upon golden necklace jingling on his chest, above a tunic which looked like it was dyed with purple from Lazpa. The corners of his lips pulled into a smile.

‘Alakšandu, king of Wiluša, here to serve you, Your Sun,’ he said.

The smile was unconventional for a meeting like this, but pleasant enough that it could pass. Muwatalli smiled back.

‘Welcome to Tarḫuntašša, my lord,’ he replied. ‘Stand.’

Alakšandu obeyed. He was not quite as tall as Muwatalli, though his shoulders were broader. He blew a curl out of his face.

‘I apologise for our delegation’s delay, Your Sun,’ he said. ‘I decided it would be easier to come conclude the treaty in person, but I first had to deal with unexpected matters that required my attention in Wiluša. May Your Sun forgive me.’

Muwatalli waved his hand.

‘It’s nothing. Do you have the draft?’

The man next to Alakšandu stepped forward and pulled a tablet out of the folds of his clothes. Muwatalli skimmed over the text, scratching his beard as he read. The men of Wiluša hadn’t changed much. They had added several of their own gods to the witness list – Appaliunaš, the rivers and springs of Wiluša, and the gods of their underground watercourse – and struck off the negation in the return of fugitives from Ḫatti. That last bit would not do. Muwatalli looked up from the tablet.

‘I can’t agree to the return of your fugitives if they flee to me. It is not law to give fugitives back from the land of Ḫatti.’

Alakšandu frowned. The expression made the scar that crossed his face starker, giving him the look of a rugged war hero – and a handsome one, at that.

‘It is always law to give back fugitives.’

‘Not from the land of Ḫatti,’ Muwatalli replied. ‘And let me remind you that the words of this tablet are not based on reciprocity. I came to your aid and took your land from the hands of your enemies. Or has that slipped your mind?’

‘No, Your Sun.’ Alakšandu jiggled his knee thoughtfully, his eyes on the floor, then sighed. ‘Very well. Our fugitives will not be returned, then. Anything else?’

‘Don’t take bird oracles before sending your troops to assist me. It will delay them too much.’

‘Fine.’ The curl had fallen back over Alakšandu’s eyebrow again. He brushed it away. ‘Other qualms, Your Sun, or are we agreed?’

‘We are agreed.’

Muwatalli handed the tablet back to the man who had been carrying it. He placed it back in his toga, draping the fabric over his shoulder again carefully. Muwatalli turned back to Alakšandu. The king of Wiluša was smiling his disarming smile again.

‘Shall we read the treaty before the gods tonight, Your Sun?’

Muwatalli cleared his throat.

‘Tomorrow. Tonight, let us dine together as allies.’ He held out a hand. ‘As friends.’

Alakšandu clasped his hand without hesitation.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As friends.’

And as soon-to-be comrades in arms, Muwatalli thought as he led Alakšandu out of the audience hall. But that would come later. For now, he had a western guest to entertain, and by the gods – all of them – he would do it as a Great King.


	2. A New Bond

Sitting at the head of the dining table, Muwatalli watched Alakšandu and his men help themselves to the flatbreads, spiced lentils, cheeses and skewered meats the best of the palace cooks had prepared. Alakšandu took a small bite from his plate, then nodded as he chewed. He leaned towards Muwatalli.

‘A true feast,’ he said. ‘Wiluša will remember your hospitality, Your Sun.’

Muwatalli nodded back, proud. This would show his new vassal what it meant to be on good terms with the king of Ḫatti. He reached for the nearest pitcher of wine and filled Alakšandu’s rhyton.

‘To the bond between our lands,’ he said and raised his own rhyton.

‘To the bond between our lands,’ Alakšandu repeated. His eyes locked on Muwatalli’s, he drank. The light from the oil lamps danced on his face. He set the rhyton back down. ‘By the way, your sister sends her greetings. We visited her and her husband on our way through Arzawa.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Muwatalli said as he scooped lentils onto his flatbread. ‘She is still childless, I presume?’

‘The gods have not yet blessed her and king Mašturbi with children, no.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘Yes, it’s unfortunate.’ Alakšandu sipped his wine. ‘Even more so since Arzawa longs to be ruled by a descendant of the Great King Muršili. Its people always loved him dearly.’

An interesting way to say ‘rebelled against him in the third year of his reign’, Muwatalli thought, but said nothing. He took a bite from his flatbread and swallowed in silence.

‘We were all dismayed to hear about his death,’ Alakšandu continued. ‘Even Lazpa went into mourning.’

‘Oh,’ said Muwatalli, ‘he isn’t dead.’

Alakšandu raised his eyebrows.

‘He isn’t?’

‘No. That’s a common misconception.’ Muwatalli reached for another flatbread. ‘The Stormgod of Manuzziya made my father’s mouth go sideways, so that he could no longer speak. Of course, he couldn’t rule like that, so we deposed him, and I was made king instead. But Muršili is alive. He lives in Ḫattuša, under the care of my brother.’

‘He must be quite old by now.’

‘Quite.’

Alakšandu was smiling again. Trying not to let it distract him, Muwatalli turned away and spread soft cheese onto his flatbread. He cleared his throat. It was still sore from the morning’s prayer.

‘But let us talk about more important matters. How is the land of Aḫḫiyawa?’

‘Belligerent, as always. But it hasn’t threatened us since you let it have Milawata. We have been able to trade with the lands across the sea without trouble.’

Muwatalli scratched his beard, intrigued. The land of Ḫatti had never ventured far into the sea; its people had the mountains and rivers of the Upper Land in their blood, not those strange expanses of salt water the people of Aḫḫiyawa and Keftiu had made their own. Still, if Wiluša had command of a maritime trade route or two, it would be a useful asset.

‘What lands are there beyond the sea?’ Muwatalli asked.

‘Many,’ said Alakšandu. ‘None are as rich as Ḫatti, Egypt or the other lands to the sunrise, but they have much to offer.’ He turned towards the man to his left, the one who had given Muwatalli the draft of the treaty. ‘Claudius, tell the Great King about where you come from.’

The man leaned around Alakšandu. He had dark hair and olive skin, and a curved nose that gave him a severe look. When he spoke, however, it was in a soft voice.

‘I am from a good land,’ he said in an accent. ‘We have good men, good women and good wine. We are always happy to trade, in grain or in blood on the battlefield. I would be honoured to ally my people to Ḫatti, Your Sun, if you wish for it.’

‘What is the name of your land?’ Muwatalli asked.

Claudius tapped his lips with a finger.

‘I do not know,’ he said after a pause. ‘To tell the truth, we have not discussed it before. I think we are waiting for an important person to come and name it. Maybe someone with a special fate, like being raised by wolves.’

‘Well,’ said Muwatalli, ‘let me know when your land has a name, and I will send an envoy. Honest soldiers are always of use to me.’

‘I will tell you, Your Sun,’ said Claudius before twisting back into his seat.

Alakšandu rested his elbow on the table, his head in his hand. His eyes on Muwatalli again, he drank down the last of his wine.

‘Speaking of envoys,’ he said, ‘let it be known that you would always be welcome in Wiluša, Your Sun.’

The curl had fallen over his brow again. Muwatalli glanced away, hoping to focus on his meal instead. For all his charm, Alakšandu was only a vassal ruler from a western city. Even if he dressed in as much finery, and had a face as strikingly chiselled as the gods themselves.

‘Your invitation is welcome,’ he said, ‘and expected of you. But I will not be able to visit Wiluša for some time. I will soon be fighting in Syria.’ His eyes darted up for a heartbeat. ‘As my ally, so, probably, will you.’

Alakšandu refilled his rhyton without answering. His smile was gone, replaced by the intent stare of a warrior. In all likelihood, he wasn’t happy to send his troops to Syria, but he wouldn’t have a choice. He set the pitcher down on the table and popped a honey and nut roll into his mouth.

‘I will serve you to my best, Your Sun,’ he said after swallowing.

Muwatalli reached for a roll himself. His eyes met Alakšandu’s, confidently this time.

‘You will.’

After that, the conversation turned back to livelier subjects, and as the night drew on, the tables were cleared away and dancers from Sumer replaced them. Muwatalli watched Alakšandu’s face as they swirled around the room. He seemed impressed. Good. The man would make a precious ally, Muwatalli thought as he returned to his bedchambers in the early hours, humming the lyre riff from the last song. Alakšandu was a good-natured man, almost too self-assured for someone of his rank, but honest. On the battlefield as elsewhere, they would get on well.

If only Muwatalli could stop himself from being troubled whenever their eyes crossed.

The treaty was sealed the next morning, and Muwatalli held his head high and let the sun glint on his king’s cap as he poured out the libations. Alakšandu smiled as usual, his wrists heavy with gold and lapis lazuli. He must have brought an entire chest of jewellery with him – not that Wiluša and its endless riches would miss it. As the wine trickled into the dust, he opened his arms, the bracelets slipping down to his elbows. Muwatalli clasped him back. They then turned to the assembly, shoulders still brushing, as noblemen from Tarḫuntašša and delegates from Wiluša alike cheered. Muwatalli gave a bow. They knew, like he did, how significant to both their lands this ceremony was.

The cheers died down as the two men walked back into the palace, the doors closing behind them. Muwatalli held out his hand for Alakšandu to shake.

‘We will meet again soon,’ the Great King said. ‘I look forward to fighting at your side in Syria.’

Alakšandu squeezed his palm.

‘Are you certain you don’t wish to visit Wiluša?’ he asked. ‘It would strengthen the people’s loyalty to see the man they fight for come to their own home.’

Muwatalli’s mind flicked back to the list of deities and their localities from yesterday’s prayer.

‘If I visited the home of every contingent that fights for me, the last pharaoh of Egypt would be dead before I even left the Upper Land.’

‘Fair enough,’ Alakšandu chuckled. ‘Though I doubt many other towns have the gold and the sea ships that we could provide for your campaign, if you only surveyed them first.’

He hadn’t let go of Muwatalli’s hand. Muwatalli pursed his lips in thought. It was a sensible procedure to undertake before war – though not one he himself had to be responsible for.

‘I will send one of my generals to complete the task,’ he said. ‘As I have told you already, I have enough work to do here.’

‘I understand.’ Alakšandu drew his hand away, but he kept the corners of his mouth pulled up. ‘Though you know, your war will not begin any faster if you send someone else than if you go yourself.’

Muwatalli almost rebuked him – such straightforwardness was not to be tolerated from a vassal. But before the words could come out, he shut his mouth. Maybe Alakšandu had a point. More importantly, maybe he still needed to be shown what it meant to serve the Great King. He was a good man, true, but they barely knew each other. They had only concluded oaths and exchanged gifts, and proverbs warned about Greeks bearing gifts. Muwatalli didn’t know what a Greek was, but he was fairly sure it had something to do with Wiluša. Either way, he still had to strengthen Alakšandu’s loyalty.

He didn’t mention it until the next morning, but by sunset, he was decided. He would accompany Alakšandu to Wiluša.

Of course, this had nothing to do with his smile.


	3. Land of a Thousand Seals

Muwatalli waited in the courtyard by a chariot plated with gold and silver, gemstone-studded reins hanging from his hand. The horses shook their heads and trampled the ground impatiently. They were mares from the southern deserts, trained by the best horse trainers of Ḫanigalbat, delicate-limbed but strong and always obedient. Even the horses bred on the plains of Wiluša couldn’t compare. Muwatalli reached out to pat their backs. Their quality wouldn’t slip Alakšandu’s notice.

He looked up at the sky. The sun was already high; he’d been in the courtyard for over twenty minutes now. He adjusted the king’s cap on his head, then adjusted it again. It wasn’t good form to keep a Great King waiting like this. He dug through his pockets, in search of something to keep his hands busy. Cursed men of Wiluša. They didn’t know what manners were.

The sound of voices made him look up. Alakšandu and his men were crossing the courtyard, chatting in Luwian, laughing as if they weren’t almost half an hour late. Muwatalli lifted himself onto the chariot. Alakšandu split off from the rest of the delegation, walked over to him, and bowed.

‘Your Sun,’ he said, ‘forgive us for not being here earlier.’

He was wearing a deep blue tunic this time, and a cape that fluttered around his heels. Both had Lydian patterns. Muwatalli looked down at him gravely.

‘I trust you will not be this late when we battle against Egypt.’

‘No, Your Sun.’

Alakšandu risked a glance upwards. Muwatalli kept his voice stern.

‘Good. Then get ready. We have a long journey ahead of us.’

With a nod, Alakšandu straightened his back and made his way towards his own chariot. As he walked around Muwatalli’s, he slowed down, running an appreciative gaze over the horses. The shadow of a smirk flicked across his face.

‘You are trying to impress me,’ he said.

Muwatalli folded his arms over his chest.

‘I am the Great King. It is my duty to make my rank clear to you.’

‘Of course.’

Alakšandu turned away and stepped lightly onto his chariot. With a call from the drivers, the vehicles lurched forward. Muwatalli and Alakšandu exchanged only few words after that; once they had pulled out of the city gates, Alakšandu leaned against the side of his chariot and opened a book, and Muwatalli let him be and watched the scenery roll by. In the early afternoon, they halted near a brook and filled their waterskins while the horses drank. Muwatalli knelt by a cluster of rocks and left a slice of bread for the deity of the water. One had to be respectful of such places.

Not much further than that, the road delved into the forest, and Muwatalli rested his arms on the edge of the chariot and listened to the sounds of nature. Hedgehogs snuffled through the undergrowth, overturning the fallen blossoms. A boar grunted in the distance. As the chariots wheeled around a bend, a shadow stretched out of the trees, and a fully grown moose plodded across the path. Muwatalli’s chariot driver raised his eyebrows.

‘Impressive,’ he whispered. ‘I haven’t seen one of these in years.’

Alakšandu’s chariot pulled up next to theirs.

‘So they aren’t extinct then?’ the king of Wiluša asked. ‘They have been gone from our land for generations.’

‘Not here,’ said Muwatalli, ‘though they are rare. My father issued a decree to protect our wildlife at the end of his reign. Since then, they have been guarded by the Great Landkeeper.’

Alakšandu nodded, staring in the direction the animal had vanished. His chariot driver cracked his whip, and the delegation moved forward again.

‘Do you have much wildlife in Wiluša?’ Muwatalli asked in an attempt to keep the conversation going.

‘The usual,’ Alakšandu replied. ‘Birds, wolves, horses, lions… We have been seeing an increase in seals lately. You might be lucky to see them when we get further north.’

‘Interesting.’

Alakšandu brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. His eyes lingered on Muwatalli.

‘You like animals, then, Your Sun.’

Muwatalli let out an awkward laugh.

‘Somewhat. I used to work with them, before I became my father’s heir.’

‘Ah yes, I remember about your older brother.’ Alakšandu sighed, then spoke again hesitantly. ‘He is dead for real, I assume, not like your father?’

‘No, he is dead.’

‘Such a shame.’ Alakšandu sighed again. ‘What work did you do with animals, then?’

‘I dissected them.’

Alakšandu blinked in surprise. Muwatalli shouldn’t have said it like that. He added hastily:

‘In the House of Wisdom. I dissected mice in the House of Wisdom. It was to gain knowledge on how their minds worked.’

‘Neurological research, then.’

Muwatalli nodded. He hadn’t expected Alakšandu to know the term.

‘Did you discover anything interesting?’ the king of Wiluša asked.

‘Not much. I was called up to serve my father before I had done much work. But duty must come before pleasure.’

Alakšandu raised his eyebrows, his soft brown eyes reflecting the sunlight.

‘Must it?’

Muwatalli forced himself to look away.

‘Yes.’

They travelled on in silence after that, and the day wore on. In the evening, they set up camp in a clearing and ate a simple meal, and Muwatalli did his best not to stare at Alakšandu, though he felt the western man’s eyes on him. They woke up early to a rhyton of coffee spiced with cardamom. After that, the journey felt a little easier; and so they rode on, day after day after day, through Lukka, Lydia and the Šeḫa River Land, talking as they went, until they finally reached Wiluša.

Muwatalli first caught sight of the city at midday, as they crested a hill above the trees. It was far bigger than he’d imagined. It looked nothing like Tarḫuntašša or Ḫattuša, with its painted turrets and walls so tall giants could have built them, though it was beautiful in its own way. The lower city spilled out across the plain, bright with colour and teeming with people, and columns of smoke rose from what must be the forges. Alakšandu halted his chariot next to the Great King and touched his hand to his heart. He smiled.

‘Welcome to my land, Your Sun.’

Muwatalli scanned the landscape, squinting against the sun. The sea was bluer than he’d ever imagined it to be. White shapes swarmed along the shoreline.

‘What are those?’ he asked. ‘Birds?’

‘Seals,’ said Alakšandu. ‘I told you we have many.’

‘I did not know white seals existed.’

‘They’re babies.’ Alakšandu signalled to his chariot driver to go forward, and Muwatalli’s own chariot followed. ‘They congregate here in springtime. They have been moving further inland these last years, though nobody knows why. But they cause no trouble.’

‘I should hope not.’

The king of Wiluša’s smile broadened, showing his teeth.

‘No, Your Sun. They are harmless. I’m sure of it.’

His smile did not leave his lips as they drove down the hill and across the plain. Just before sunset, they finally reached the gates, and people gathered and cheered for the two kings riding by. Muwatalli kept his back straight and lifted his hand to greet them. Many of these men would soon be fighting with him on the battlefields of Syria. Best he show them what kind of person would be leading them. Alakšandu waved at his side, jumping off his chariot in front of the palace instead of dismounting formally. He held out his hand to help Muwatalli down.

‘Your Sun,’ he said.

Muwatalli took his hand and let the king of Wiluša lead him indoors. The suite Alakšandu showed him to was on the first floor of the building, with walls painted in saffron and blue, a bed draped in silk and heavy with pillows, and a large balcony overlooking the bay. Muwatalli stepped out into the open air. A breeze blew around him, salty from the sea. Alakšandu propped himself up against the parapet next to him.

‘Is it to your satisfaction, Your Sun?’

Muwatalli turned towards him.

‘It is sufficient, yes.’ He paused. ‘Thank you.’

Alakšandu rested his chin in his palm lazily.

‘It is my honour to please the Great King,’ he said.

Frustratingly, his words made Muwatalli’s cheeks feel warm. He looked away, towards the ships docked in the port.

‘We will see tomorrow if the resources you promised meet the same standards.’

‘They will, Your Sun.’ Alakšandu leaned forward. ‘Trust me.’

Muwatalli stared resolutely into the distance. In the corner of his eye, he could see Alakšandu’s smile, and his curls the colour of fire in the sunset, and his well-built frame, and he refused to think about any of it. He watched the seals squirm along the beach. Dozens upon dozens of round, black eyes gazed back. Better them than Alakšandu.

‘I am sure no other land will be to your satisfaction as Wiluša is,’ the western man continued.

Muwatalli crossed his arms.

‘I am sure no other ruler needs to learn how to serve me as the one of Wiluša does,’ he replied.

‘I am sure no other Great King would know how to show me as you would.’

Alakšandu’s tone hadn’t changed. Muwatalli shot him an irritated glance. The outcome of the war against Egypt would depend in part on this man’s cooperation, and he treated it as if it was a game. As if Muwatalli could be toyed with like this. As if being a handsomely rugged warrior with quick-witted responses was enough. As if…

Muwatalli scrambled for his thoughts. Alakšandu hadn’t moved, his scar accentuated by the dying light, leading down from his forehead to the curve of his neck.

‘My lord,’ Muwatalli declared, then stopped. He wasn’t sure what order he’d meant to give. He said the first thing that came to mind. ‘Kiss me.’

Alakšandu raised his eyebrows. Then his face broke into a grin.

‘Lip kiss or French kiss?’

‘What is a French kiss?’

‘I don’t know.’ Alakšandu edged closer. ‘Shall we find out?’

Before Muwatalli could answer, he’d slipped his hands behind the Great King’s neck. Then, as the sun vanished into the sea and a thousand baby seals looked on, their lips met, and they kissed.


	4. The Road Home

Muwatalli woke shortly after dawn, his limbs still entangled with Alakšandu’s. He pushed the sheets away and rummaged around for his clothes. The night had been long, but the day would be longer still. Best he get started with his work as soon as possible.

‘Are you looking for something, Your Sun?’

Muwatalli twisted around. Alakšandu was sitting up in bed, his hair fuzzy and tangled and still framing his face as attractively as ever. Muwatalli couldn’t help but gaze at him for a moment before answering.

‘My tunic. I can’t find it, and your servants haven’t sent up the chest with my other clothes yet.’

‘They can be lazy,’ Alakšandu said, leaning back against the pillows. ‘But don’t worry, Your Sun. My own apartments are just across the hallway. You can take your pick from my wardrobe.’

‘That will not be necessary.’ Muwatalli pulled his tunic out of the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. ‘I’ve found it.’

Alakšandu blew his hair out of his face.

‘Should a Great King wear the same outfit twice before his people?’

Muwatalli sighed.

Just an hour later, he was stepping out of the palace doors with Alakšandu at his side, both wearing Alakšandu’s Lazpa finery. Muwatalli smoothed out the folds on his chest. The garment the king of Wiluša had given him – a dark blue dress he’d called a kimono – was comfortable, though a little wide at the shoulders. It moved agreeably around Muwatalli’s feet as he wound his way through the herd of seals to the port.

As Alakšandu had promised, the ships were satisfactory, and Muwatalli took pleasure in listening to his voice as he explained how the trade routes worked and which ones could be used in the campaign against Egypt. The day went by fast, and the next days after that; Muwatalli visited the barracks and the forges, the banks and the horse training grounds. Wiluša truly was a rich and powerful city, and Alakšandu’s pride in it was evident. Having him as a vassal would be useful in the years to come – though Muwatalli lingered on the thought less than he would’ve a month ago. For now, sharing a bed with him was more than enough.

Still, the day came when the delegation from Ḫatti was set to return to Tarḫuntašša. That same morning, Alakšandu’s advisor Claudius left by ship for Aḫḫiyawa, carrying gifts for its Great King; it would be best to pacify him now, Alakšandu had said, so he did not set Wiluša’s sea routes to Syria in jeopardy. Muwatalli watched the yacht sail away, side by side with the king of Wiluša. As it vanished out of the bay, Alakšandu squeezed his shoulder.

‘It seems this is goodbye for now, Your Sun,’ he said.

He wasn’t smiling. Muwatalli placed his own hand on Alakšandu’s.

‘We will meet again soon,’ he said. ‘I will send word when I need you.’

Alakšandu bowed his head.

‘And I will come gladly, Your Sun.’

They walked hand in hand to where the chariots were waiting, and Alakšandu helped Muwatalli up. The chariot driver, dressed in an ‘I Heart Wiluša’ tunic he’d bought as a souvenir that morning, took up the reins. Alakšandu stepped back.

‘I trust you know the road home?’ he said.

Muwatalli turned to the chariot driver.

‘I trust you do.’

The chariot driver reddened.

‘To tell the truth, Your Sun, I was relying on you for that one.’

‘I am the Great King.’ Muwatalli frowned at him. ‘It is not my responsibility to drive us home.’

‘No, of course…’

The chariot driver was even redder than before. Muwatalli took the reins from his hands.

‘We will go south-east. That should lead us towards Tarḫuntašša.’

‘Should it?’ another driver piped up. ‘I thought Tarḫuntašša was south.’

‘I thought it was east,’ said another.

‘East is Ḫattuša.’

‘True, but…’

Muwatalli clenched his eyes shut. He couldn’t believe it. He thought back to his prayer to the assembly of the gods, tried to remember which localities were listed close to Tarḫuntašša. Curse it, there were too many. He knew the city was in a plain, about twenty days’ walk from Ḫattuša, but beyond that he had no idea. He opened his eyes again.

‘Figure out the road,’ he said to his chariot driver. ‘I don’t care how. Just figure it out. We can’t do a thing against Egypt if we can’t find our capital.’

‘On the bright side,’ said one of the men, ‘Egypt might not be able to find it either.’

Muwatalli pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

‘Your Sun,’ came Alakšandu’s voice, ‘perhaps I could help.’

Muwatalli looked up.

‘Yes?’

‘We have a high number of archeologists working in the region. I’m sure they would be honoured to uncover where Tarḫuntašša lies.’

‘Fine. Send your archeologists.’ Muwatalli waved his hand. ‘But make sure they work quickly. I can’t afford to lose much more time.’

‘Of course.’

As they travelled back to the palace, Muwatalli had to resist the urge to kick the seals out of the way. Their wide, oddly intelligent eyes stared at him as he strode past. How could his men be so incompetent? It would have been understandable if they came from some small vassal state, or if they were Gašga or Galatian, but they were from the heartland of Ḫatti itself. They had served the Great King, the king of Ḫatti, the beloved of the Stormgod of Lightning, the hero, all their lives. And yet, on the verge of a war, they couldn’t remember where their own capital was.

The archeologists didn’t find Tarḫuntašša. As the days and weeks went by, Muwatalli paced back and forth in Alakšandu’s apartments, tugging at his beard. The campaign against Syria would have to wait until next year, it seemed – the thought vexed him, but it didn’t look like he had a choice. Still, he had to keep busy. Tarḫuntašša had to be located before the winter was over, or Egypt would hear news of this and launch an attack first. He couldn’t afford the risk.

‘I’m going to Ḫattuša,’ he told Alakšandu one evening. ‘I need to speak to my father about this.’

Raising his eyebrows, Alakšandu sat down on the bed and began taking off his kimono.

‘Your father? I thought he lost his speech.’

‘He did.’ Muwatalli knelt down in front of his lover to help untie his obi. ‘But we have found ways to make do.’

‘And you think he could help you find Tarḫuntašša?’

‘Surely. At the very least, he could give me advice.’

Muwatalli slipped the haori off Alakšandu’s shoulders. His hands lingered on the king of Wiluša’s chest.

‘Has he lost his own capital before?’ Alakšandu asked.

‘No.’ Muwatalli’s fingers moved down, working on unravelling the waist string. ‘But he did lose his two brothers and his wife in the ninth year of his reign.’

‘Impressive. Did he find them again?’

‘No, idiot. They died.’

Alakšandu looked down. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine. Just don’t tell him that when you meet him.’

Alakšandu unclipped the brooches holding Muwatalli’s own tunic in place.

‘When I meet him?’

‘You will be coming with me, of course.’ Muwatalli rolled up and set aside the last of Alakšandu’s clothes. ‘This was, after all, partly your fault.’

Alakšandu gave a coy half-smile.

‘Was it?’

‘Of course.’ Muwatalli ran his hands over the king of Wiluša’s thighs. ‘If you hadn’t had that handsome face and that sharp tongue of yours, I might still be in Tarḫuntašša.’

With a laugh, Alakšandu cupped Muwatalli’s face in his hands and drew him closer.

They left just a few days later, with as small of a retinue as they could manage so they would travel as fast as possible. Muwatalli and Alakšandu rode side by side on the same chariot, sharing a tent at night, despite the whispers of their men and the furious scribbling of a historian who had somehow managed to join the trip. They reached Ḫattuša on a bright autumn afternoon. Leaving the chariots in the palace courtyard, they walked hand in hand into the hallway. Muwatalli looked around. Nobody was in sight.

‘My father might be in the audience hall,’ he said to Alakšandu. ‘This way.’

Before he could take a step, a voice echoed through the hallway.

‘My greetings, Great King.’

Muwatalli jumped. Alakšandu let go of his hand and spun around, brow furrowed in confusion.

‘Who is it?’ he mouthed. ‘Where are they?’

A shadow stole out from behind the corner. Without a word, she moved forward as if she was floating, her wide skirt barely rustling against the floor, her face painted white glowing in the gloom. She stopped in front of Muwatalli and drew a fan from her sleeve. Waving it delicately in front of her face, she smiled and said nothing.

‘May the gods keep you well, my lady,’ Muwatalli said before turning to Alakšandu. ‘Allow me to present my father’s new wife.’

Alakšandu bowed, and she inclined her head ever so slightly in return. Her curls powdered white, like her face, balanced precariously on her head.

‘Alakšandu of Wiluša, at your service,’ he said.

‘Mariya-Antuwanata, at yours,’ she replied.

Still fanning herself, she turned around in a perfect half-circle. After a few steps, she glanced back at Muwatalli and Alakšandu and looked them up and down, unblinking, her head held high. She puckered her lips.

‘You wished to see my husband,’ she said. ‘Well, follow me.’

Muwatalli and Alakšandu shuffled after her cautiously. She led them to the doors of the audience hall, where she halted and snapped her fan shut. She waited for Muwatalli and Alakšandu to catch up. Muwatalli leaned towards Alakšandu as they slowed down.

‘A piece of advice,’ he whispered. ‘When my father speaks, do not laugh.’

Alakšandu frowned.

‘Why?’

‘Just don’t.’

Before he had time to answer, Mariya-Antuwanata pulled her glove off, finger by finger, then placed it in Muwatalli’s hand. She positioned the tips of her fingers on the door handle and turned. The doors swung open.

‘My dear husband,’ she said with a curtsy, ‘your son has come to see you.’

Simpering, she stood aside. With one last look at each other, Muwatalli and Alakšandu walked in.


	5. Life is Always Cake

Muršili sat on the throne with his chin in his hand, holding a tablet in the other. He looked up when he heard Muwatalli and Alakšandu come in. Smiling tenderly at his son, he bowed his head.

‘May the gods keep you well, father,’ Muwatalli said.

Muršili reached into his pocket for a stylus and wrote on the tablet. He lifted it up. An automated voice came out.

‘Gods can do well with you,’ it stated.

‘What the fuck,’ said Alakšandu.

Muwatalli ignored him and stepped forward to hug his father. As Muršili sat back down, he wrote a few words on the tablet again.

‘How do you make my child?’ asked the automated voice.

‘I am well, thank you,’ said Muwatalli.

Alakšandu was tugging on his sleeve. Muwatalli turned around.

‘What?’ he mouthed.

‘Explain.’

Alakšandu jabbed a thumb at Muršili. Muwatalli spoke quickly, under his breath.

‘My brother and I bought him software that would allow him to talk. We had to set up a translation function, since it only came with languages which haven’t been invented yet. It’s difficult, I know. But I told you. We make do. Now be quiet.’

He turned back to his father. Muršili held out the tablet.

‘Which one will throw you here, thirty?’

Muwatalli shifted on his feet.

‘I’ve come because we have a problem. We…’ He pulled on his beard. ‘Uh, we lost Tarḫuntašša.’

Muršili frowned, then bent forward to write.

‘Do you pray for god’s help in the rain? So, everything does not look like this. These may be appropriate for your goddesses according to your desires.’

Muwatalli concentrated, trying to make sense of what his father meant to say. He wasn’t sure he’d understood all of it.

‘If you’re talking about my romantic desires, father, I’ve told you before.’ He glanced at Alakšandu. ‘You know I’ve never been very interested in women.’

Muršili was writing again.

‘I mean,’ came the automated voice in its exaggerated tone, ‘that god alone can do things directly through his spiritual provocation.’

Alakšandu squeaked. He clapped a hand over his mouth, evidently trying not to laugh. Muwatalli elbowed him in the ribs.

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I will pray to the Stormgod about this.’

Muršili nodded then looked beyond him to Alakšandu, still holding back his laughter.

‘This guy is behind you, who are your friends?’

Muwatalli moved aside. Alakšandu tottered forward, taking a deep breath before answering.

‘I am Alakšandu, king of Wiluša, ally to your son.’

Muršili’s eyes jumped from him to Muwatalli, then back to Alakšandu.

‘Is there any feedback?’

Alakšandu rubbed his mouth.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Do I love the baby?’

Tears were budding in Alakšandu’s eyes. Muwatalli grasped him by the shoulder. He had to intervene before this mannerless western man was lost to hysterics.

‘He’s asking if we’re in a relationship,’ he whispered.

‘Oh!’ Alakšandu took in another deep breath. ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

Muršili raised a hand to his heart.

‘We find love in marriage, happiness, and strength,’ said the automated voice.

‘Thank you, father,’ said Muwatalli. ‘That’s kind of you to say. But we must go now. We…’

‘So soon?’ came a voice from behind them.

Mariya-Antuwanata was standing in the doorway, fanning herself again. Her traits were arranged into what Muwatalli wasn’t sure was a pretence or honest disappointment.

‘But you have barely arrived,’ she pouted. ‘Please, do stay with us for tea.’

Muwatalli shook his head, ready to refuse. He had to get Alakšandu out of here. The voice from the tablet cut him off.

‘Do not leave my baby.’ Muršili stood up, holding out a hand. ‘You will be welcomed into my desk.’

Swallowing a sigh, Muwatalli took his father’s hand. He held out the other for Alakšandu to follow, narrowing his eyes at him as an unspoken warning. Muwatalli loved his father dearly, and regardless of his speech affliction, Muršili deserved respect. If the king of Wiluša so much as let out a titter during the meal, it would be over between them.

They sat down together in the dining hall, and Mariya-Antuwanata went to the kitchens herself to fetch the food. She returned with a platter of assorted cakes. Muwatalli left Alakšandu to sample them while he and his father attempted to make conversation. Soon Mariya-Antuwanata vanished again, and when she glided back into the hall, it was with two more platters of cake. She placed a large Forêt Noire in front of Muršili. He set to cutting it into slices.

Alakšandu lifted his eyebrows and leaned towards Mariya-Antuwanata.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘if you will excuse me, I thought this was our evening meal. Will there be nothing else than –’

Muwatalli stamped on his foot before he could finish. Muršili put down his knife to write on the tablet.

‘Life is always cake,’ declared the automated voice.

Meeting Alakšandu’s eyes, Muršili stuffed an entire slice into his mouth. Muwatalli reached over. He slid the plate of Forêt Noire away from his father.

‘I think that will be enough,’ he said.

Muršili looked him up and down, eyebrows drawn together, cheeks full of cake, then snatched up his tablet and started writing. A beeping tune from Alakšandu’s direction interrupted him. Alakšandu jumped up. He pulled something small and rose gold from his kimono.

Muwatalli’s eyes widened.

‘By the gods, what is that?’

‘This,’ said Alakšandu, ‘is a cellphone.’

‘I know what a cellphone is,’ Muwatalli snapped back. ‘But why that? Why do you own a Nokia flip phone, Alakšandu?’

The phone was still ringing. Alakšandu shrugged.

‘I like it.’

‘It’s ten years old.’

‘Maybe,’ said Alakšandu, flipping it open, ‘but we’re living in BC. The years are backwards. So technically, I’m ten years ahead. Now if you’ll excuse me…’

He turned his back and put the phone to his ear, speaking in Luwian, while Muwatalli buried his face in his hands. Muršili reached for the cake again. Muwatalli butted his hand away with his elbow. Mariya-Antuwanata simpered politely.

‘They want to what?’ Alakšandu exclaimed suddenly.

Muwatalli lifted his head. Alakšandu pressed a palm to his forehead, letting out a sigh.

‘Claudius, how many times have I told you not to tell people about my private life?’

The phone crackled. Alakšandu glanced at Muwatalli.

‘Yes, I’m aware of how good-looking he is. But Claudius – yes, I know. But the king of Aḫḫiyawa didn’t need to be told that. And – yes, fine, now it’s too late. Fine. I’m sure you did. What you’ll do now is wait for me in Wiluša without saying a word to anyone else. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.’

He clapped the phone shut. Muwatalli, Muršili and Mariya-Antuwanata were all staring at him. Alakšandu spoke directly to Muwatalli.

‘Your Sun, I’m sorry I have to bring you this news.’ He swept the curls out of his face. ‘The men of Aḫḫiyawa are preparing to attack Wiluša.’

With a sharp intake of breath, Muwatalli closed his fists. This was the last thing he needed.

‘Why?’

‘Because –’ Alakšandu lifted his eyes to the ceiling – ‘because the king of Aḫḫiyawa heard we were together, and he was… jealous.’ He met Muwatalli’s gaze again with a sigh. ‘He’s launching a thousand ships to claim your pretty face from me.’

It took everything in Muwatalli not to bang his head down against the table. First the disappearance of Tarḫuntašša, and now this. The gods, all one thousand of them, must be laughing at him. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

‘Fine,’ he said, ‘If this is how it must be, I will come with you. As I swore in our treaty, if a foreign land threatens yours, I will stand by your side and defend it.’

Swiftly, Alakšandu took him in his arms and kissed him.

‘Thank you,’ he breathed. ‘I will fight for you till the last, Your Sun.’

Muwatalli drew himself away, not without entwining his fingers with his lover’s first, so as not to break contact.

‘I hope it doesn’t come to that,’ he said. ‘But that’s enough talk. Let’s go.’


	6. War

Since the matter was urgent, Muwatalli and Alakšandu left their chariots in Ḫattuša and booked plane tickets instead. There wasn’t much wait at the check-in; at this time of the year, most travellers would be flying south to Babylon or Susa, not west to Wiluša. Alakšandu strode through security, barely stopping to show his boarding tablet. Muwatalli hurried after him. As he passed the gate, a loud alarm and flashing lights startled him.

‘Sir,’ said the security officer, ‘please stand on the cross with your arms outstretched.’

Muwatalli barely slowed down.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ he said.

‘Sir,’ repeated the security officer, ‘you have a full-length sword at your belt. According to our code of safety regulations, paragraph eleven, section five, you…’

Muwatalli spun around to glare at him.

‘I am the Great King of Ḫatti. I am going to war. Leave me be.’

‘Great King or not, regulations are regulations. With the current situation in the Middle East, terrorists could…’

‘Are you suggesting I’m planning a terrorist attack against my own land?’ Muwatalli’s hand fell onto the hilt of his sword. This was ridiculous.

‘Your Sun,’ Alakšandu intervened. ‘There is no use arguing.’ He walked over to take Muwatalli’s face in his hands, then turned it so they were gazing into each other’s eyes. ‘We can buy you a new sword at the duty free shopping, my love. I’m sure they sell them there.’

With a sigh, Muwatalli unbuckled the sword from his belt. The security officer patted him down, checking there were no other weapons concealed on his body, then nodded and let him go. Muwatalli marched to the duty free area with Alakšandu on his heels. Alakšandu brushed a hand against his arm. He pointed at a boutique to their right.

‘See?’ he said. ‘I knew we could find something here. The duty free shops always sell the same things they ban at security.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Muwatalli, ‘but they’re more expensive.’

He picked up a sword and weighed it in his hands. It was less well-balanced than his own, but it would have to do. He paid for it quickly – lucky he had taken a couple of minas of silver with him, just in case – then rushed through the airport with Alakšandu ahead of him. The gate was already closing. The attendant stamped their boarding tablets, and then, at last, they were through.

They landed in Wiluša an hour and a half later, and they made their way at once to the palace. Claudius was already there. He leapt up from his seat when the hallway doors opened, then sank to his knees when he recognised Muwatalli and Alakšandu.

‘Your Sun,’ he faltered, lowering his forehead to the floor, ‘my lord, forgive me.’

‘No,’ said Alakšandu, walking right past him. ‘Muster the men of Wiluša and have them prepared for battle. How long do we have until the men of Aḫḫiyawa arrive?’

Claudius sat back up. His face was sickly with fear.

‘I saw a great number of ships as I came here. I think they will be here tomorrow morning.’

Alakšandu turned around.

‘Then do it fast.’

Without another word, he walked away. Muwatalli followed. Both of them spent the rest of the evening in prayer; Muwatalli struggled to remember as many deity names as possible, pouring libations of wine and honey to those he knew and begging those he didn’t to have mercy. He hardly slept. By first light he was already up, dressed in a kimono and carrying his new sword at his hip. Alakšandu didn’t take much longer to get ready. Together they made their way down to the sea, thousands of soldiers, led by Claudius, behind them, and they stood hand in hand on the beach as the sun rose.

Muwatalli squinted at the forms wriggling on the sand.

‘Are those seals?’ he asked.

Alakšandu followed his gaze.

‘It looks like it. How strange that they are still here in autumn.’

‘Even stranger,’ said Muwatalli, ‘that they are still babies.’

At his words, the seals looked up at him, slowly blinking. If he hadn’t known better, Muwatalli would have thought they understood him. He ran a hand over his face. No, he was imagining things. He should have tried to sleep more. A muddled mind wouldn’t help him survive this battle.

A shout from Claudius interrupted his thoughts.

‘Ships!’

Muwatalli’s head snapped back towards the horizon. A fog had come over the sea, wispy and low, but as he peered into it, he began to discern dots of grey on white. Alakšandu drew his sword. Muwatalli grasped the hilt of his.

‘At the ready, Georges!’ bellowed Claudius.

Alakšandu looked towards him.

‘Why do you call the soldiers Georges?’

Claudius shrugged.

‘Somehow they are all called George, my lord. I do not know how this came to be.’

‘An unusual coincidence,’ said Muwatalli.

‘Indeed.’

Muwatalli twisted around to survey their ranks. The Georges stared back at him, swords and spears raised, jaws set. Muwatalli would have sworn there were less of them than when they left the city, but his mind must be playing tricks on him. He turned towards the sea again.

The ships were closer now, close enough that he could see their build. They were small, constructed from pale branches entwined into the shape of a swan, and the oars dipped into the water with barely a ripple. The people on board were eerily silent. They glided forward like ghosts, some sitting, some standing, their glistening robes trailing behind them. Their hair glimmered, golden or silver, and flowed down their backs like mist.

‘I don’t think these are the men of Aḫḫiyawa,’ Alakšandu whispered.

‘Hold,’ said Claudius to the Georges.

The first ship delved its prow into the sand, and a tall woman stepped barefoot onto the beach. Her skin was the colour of marble, her eyes the colour of summer leaves. She trod lightly up the bank. As she reached Muwatalli and Alakšandu, Muwatalli tightened his fist on the hilt of his sword. Pointed ears peeked out from her hair.

‘A star shines on the hour of our meeting, Fírimar,’ she said. ‘I am Clútaimnéstrë, queen of the Elves of the land across the sea.’

She spoke like her words were a song. Muwatalli glanced nervously behind him. Cursed men of Wiluša, there really were less of them than before. If he made it out of this alive, they would pay a heavy price for deserting him like this.

‘May the gods keep you well, I suppose,’ said Alakšandu. ‘Uh, where are the men of Aḫḫiyawa?’

‘We disposed of them,’ said the woman, smiling distantly.

‘You disposed of them? You mean you killed them?’ Alakšandu frowned. ‘How? Why?’

‘They asked many questions,’ said the woman. ‘They said they knew that they knew nothing, yet kept asking. It grew tiresome.’

‘In that case,’ said Muwatalli, ‘you have our gratitude. As Great King of Ḫatti, I –’

‘Quiet, Fírima.’

The woman lifted a graceful hand, her sleeve fluttering as she moved. She smiled again.

‘Soon it will not matter.’

‘What do you mean, it will not matter?’ said Alakšandu. ‘Is that a threat?’

His fingers clasped Muwatalli’s harder. Muwatalli shot another look over his shoulder. Only a few dozen Georges were left, and the fog was growing thicker between them. He swore under his breath.

‘We have not come to threaten you, but in the name of curiosity,’ said the woman. ‘We have, in our possession, an unfortunate Dwarf who has been trapped within a bull of steel. His only nourishment comes from the blood of the creatures we offer him, and that he may drink through the cracks of his prison. A pathetic fate, truly, though not of our own doing, of course.’

She let out a small giggle. Alakšandu’s eyes jumped from her to Muwatalli, then back to her.

‘And you want us to free him?’

‘Oh no, Fírima. No.’ The woman tilted her head sideways, the shadow of her laughter still on her lips. ‘We are curious to know what may happen when we feed him the blood of a king.’

Instinctively, both Muwatalli and Alakšandu stepped back. Muwatalli scoured the land for the Georges, ready to call them to attack. They were all gone. Only Claudius stood there, knees shaking, staring at a white shape that waddled through the fog. It was coming closer. Muwatalli gripped Alakšandu’s hand. A baby seal. It was one of the baby seals.

The baby seal snuffled and looked up.

‘Bwah,’ it said, red dripping from its mouth.

Dropping his spear, Claudius spun on his heels and bolted.

‘Well,’ said Alakšandu, ‘I guess we have no way out of this.’

‘But what about Egypt?’ said Muwatalli. ‘This campaign was supposed to be the biggest event of my reign. Who else will fight the battle of Kadeš if I’m dead?’

Alakšandu shrugged.

‘I suppose your father will have to do it.’

An unearthly creaking covered his voice. The woman turned her head towards the sound, a look of wonder on her face. Her eyes drifted back towards Muwatalli and Alakšandu.

‘Sleep softly, Fírimar,’ she murmured before skipping down to her ship.

The fleet vanished into the fog in moments. Alakšandu set down his sword and took Muwatalli into his arms. The creaking grew louder as something grey and fetid shambled towards them over the sand. The baby seal slithered into the water. Muwatalli met Alakšandu’s eyes.

‘It seems like this really is goodbye,’ he said.

Alakšandu kissed him. Muwatalli closed his eyes. Just a step or two away, the creaking stopped.

Then there was nothing.


	7. Epilogue: Disturbing the Egyptians

Muršili stood in the plain of Kadeš, his left hand steady on the edge of his chariot, his right hand gripping his tablet. Two soldiers with loudspeakers took up position on either side of him. In the distance, the Egyptian army was marching forward, their pharaoh Ramses like a god in their midst. Muršili straightened his back. He could do this. It had been difficult to find the necessary troops, since Tarḫuntašša seemed to have disappeared for good, but his men were well-trained, and Muršili knew how to lead an army. He wrote his first command on the tablet. So it began.

The loudspeakers crackled.

‘The attackers are attacking,’ came the cool, disjointed voice.

The general to Muršili’s left raised an eyebrow.

‘You don’t say.’

Muršili rubbed out his sentence and reformulated it. Hopefully this version would work better.

‘Come out! Try it!’

The general rubbed his neck awkwardly.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘since you mention it, I have been thinking about telling you that… Uh, the thing is, ever since I was very young, I… I always felt more like a woman in the body of a man, and, uh…’

His voice trailed away. There was a silence. Muršili started writing on his tablet again.

‘Hey, Kantuzili,’ called out one of the other generals. ‘I support you.’

‘Yeah,’ added someone else, ‘what other people think doesn’t matter. Man or woman, you rock.’

‘Definitely, and there will always be a place for you among us.’

Muršili finished writing. He looked up. Kantuzili was blushing.

‘Thanks, guys.’

‘I also support you,’ said the automatic voice. ‘But it has expired. We want to fight it!’

The generals stared at him in confusion.

‘He ran a god to us,’ the voice continued, ‘our choice ought to keep safe our greetings!’

The sound of laughter wafted across the plain. Muršili gritted his teeth. The Egyptians were mocking him. He pressed the stylus into the tablet angrily.

‘For the sake of fucking, I decided to disturb the Egyptians!’

The laughter grew louder. Muršili scribbled another sentence.

‘It is not blocked! I came here and fought, Ramses was my geologist!’

From the enemy ranks, a man stumbled forward. He made his way across the plain with difficulty, clutching his ribs, half a dozen guards leaning against each other and following him. He steadied his crown as he reached Muršili’s chariot. He wiped away a tear.

‘My lord,’ he wheezed, ‘I think it would be best if we just concluded a peace treaty.’

Muršili wrote, then crossed his arms.

‘I took a chicken.’

One of the guards crumpled down, beating the ground with his palm. Muršili kept a stern face. The man next to Ramses had taken out a tablet and was jotting down a few lines. He handed the text to Ramses, who skimmed it before handing it to Muršili.

‘If you could just seal it at the bottom,’ the pharaoh said in a choked voice.

Muršili read the tablet, then nodded. It was a fair agreement, after all, and it would save him from losing precious soldiers. He gestured to his generals to bring him his new seal. It didn’t take long for the troops to part, letting the animal through. Muršili lifted it into his arms, stroking its soft white fur, then stretched it forward. The seal booped the tablet with its nose.

‘Thank you,’ said Ramses. He gave the tablet back to his scribe. ‘You know, this will look great in the headquarters of the United Nations in three thousand years.’

Bowing his head, he turned and walked back to his army. Muršili watched him go, petting the head of his seal. This wasn’t how he’d expected things to play out, but maybe it was better this way. He scratched the seal underneath its chin. It closed its eyes into two, happy half-moons.

‘Bwah,’ it said and nuzzled the crack of Muršili’s neck, close to his jugular.

Muršili cuddled it back. Yes, maybe things weren’t so bad after all.


End file.
